


Maybe I Am Evil (Or Just Messed Up... Sorry.)

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M, Necrophilia, Plot Twist, based on a prompt, brendon is done, i continued it, it really is necrophilia tho, maybe its entertaining, no sexual stuff again, not at all actually, part two to my other fic, patrick is really creeped out, this is really weird, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8803102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A flash of panic. Memories came flooding back: the dark, suffocating, cold coffin; the smell of fresh dirt and cut grass; the murmurings of unfamiliar voices as they buried him alive. The inability to breathe as the oxygen seemed to be forced from his lungs.He fought the urge to bolt straight up, lest alerting the others in the room.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wxnna9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wxnna9/gifts).



> i am sorry
> 
> really
> 
> sorry 
> 
> but its done. actually done. like really. its weird. youre welcome???? idk man 
> 
> also 100% unedited. not sorry

Patrick woke to quiet murmurings.

From behind his closed eyelids, he could barely see the flashing lights of a TV set to his left. To test his motor skills, he made a fist against his still-asleep leg and gave a quiet sigh. Beneath him, he could tell that he was laying on a rather threadbare couch… not that last thing he remembered.

A flash of panic. Memories came flooding back: the dark, suffocating, cold coffin; the smell of fresh dirt and cut grass; the murmurings of unfamiliar voices as they buried him alive. The inability to breathe as the oxygen seemed to be forced from his lungs.

He fought the urge to bolt straight up, lest alerting the others in the room.

He wasn’t sure where he was. Who could have saved him? It’s not like it was normal for a grave to be dug up? What if they were a grave robber? Or, on the worst part of the spectrum, what if they were a necrophile _and_ a grave robber? Was he raped? They would have noticed that he was alive, though. (While lying there on the couch, Patrick gently squeezed his butt, which revealed no pain. Thank God, he wasn’t violently raped.

Patrick quietly cleared his throat as the conversations between the two others (he was unsure of their gender) died out, lapsing into an awkward silence.

“Where am I?” Patrick asked quietly, voice raspy. He felt the air change abruptly. The other two people in the room seemed to freeze, breathing very lightly. Patrick decided to take a chance and sit up, peering over the couch that he was on. “Excuse me?” he tried again, “Where am I?” He watched as the other two—now identified—men exchange glances. “Who’re you?”

The shorter of the two men unfroze. He brushed his straightened black hair out of his eyes. “Uh… hi. Sorry, I forgot you weren’t dead.” He shot Patrick a sheepish look. “You’re at our apartment.” He gestured between himself and the taller guy, who had his eyes closed and his fingers on his temples.

“You forgot I wasn’t dead?” Patrick also wanted to know this guy’s obvious history with dead people. He _had_ to have some—what kind of excuse is that? Patrick studied the two men closer before turning to find the clock. The last time he remembered was 11:41 AM. He scanned the wall with the TV, finding the clock quickly. It was 3:45 AM; has he been out for almost a day—more, maybe?

Patrick faced the men again. “Uh…” the short man began, “yeah. Sorry, well, since I found you in a grave yard.” He rubbed his neck and glanced at his friend, who shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“Tell me,” Patrick said, sighing. “ _I_ was the one buried alive, y’know.” That seemed to break the awkward silence and all three of them gave simultaneous nervous-sounding chuckles. Patrick moved to stand up, but the two mean surged around the couch.

“You probably shouldn’t get up,” the taller man said, speaking for the first time. “Oh, shot, we didn’t even introduce ourselves! I’m Brendon Urie and this is Pete Wentz.” He pointed to the shorter, emo-looking guy, who waved.

“Sorry,” the now-named Pete said, “I’m just used to dead people. I don’t ever have to introduce myself to the.” He winced as Brendon elbowed him forcefully in the ribs. “That sounds weird, doesn’t it?”

Patrick gave a nervous glance between the two of them. “Um, yeah…” he trailed off, skeptical. “…’Used to dead people’… and that’s supposed to mean?” Patrick was even more tempted to bolt. Brendon looked like a normal enough guy, but Pete was _seriously_ giving off creepy vibes. Patrick wasn’t sure if it was his straightened (dyed) black bangs hanging low over his shadowed eyes, his _sinfully_ tight deep black skinny jeans, or his _obsession with dead people_.

Thinking about it, it was probably the last thing. Dead. People. “A-Are you a necrophile?” Patrick blurted out, lacing his fingers together. He watched meekly as Brendon tapped Patrick’s shoulder and mouthed something unintelligible. Pete nodded in a response; Patrick wasn’t sure how he understood, but didn’t ask.

“ _First_ , what happened to you?” Patrick fought the urge to roll his eyes. _Of course_ he would try to change the subject. He held in a gasp as Pete suddenly, without warning, sat on the couch next to Patrick; Brendon followed suit. “Why were you buried alive,” Pete continued, “and then, uh, I’ll tell you my side of the story and how I came upon you.”

Patrick sighed and pulled his knees to his chest. He nodded. He began to speak about how, earlier the day before, he was working the early morning shift at the funeral home, when he decided it was a _good_ idea to take a nap in a coffin. What he didn’t realize, though, was that there was already supposed to be a body in the coffin, so, when he was fast asleep, they took out his body.

He had woken up to the mutterings of his coworkers, but stupidly said nothing. No one checked if he was alive; they just wrote down his information—name, date of birth, death—and moved him to be buried. It was really a bad time to be the new, unknown guy. No one realized that he was a coworker and was actually alive. _Bloody incompetent workers_ , Patrick thought.

He tried to bang on the roof of the (nicely done, he remembered) coffin, but nobody heard him.

Pete and Brendon watched with their mouths open, as Patrick explained. “How?” was the only thing Pete could say. He laid his hand on Patrick’s exposed creamy thigh, but he flinched violently.

“No clue,” Patrick whispered, ignoring what had just happened. “They’re all idiots. I blacked out after some time—not sure how long—but I has spent that time panicking. That’s the last that I remember, until I woke up here.”

“That’s kind of f—” Brendon began.

“—messed up, I know. _Now_ ,” Patrick stressed, glancing at Pete in a stern manner, “please tell me how you found me.” He smothered a yawn and blinked sleep out of his eyes.

“In the morning,” Pete said, trying to stand up, but Patrick held him down. He wasn’t going to let Pete away after he told him (and Brendon) _that_.

“Oh, heck no. You promised and I deserve to know. I was the one you saved—which I thank you for, really—but I want to know. Are you a necrophile or not? Are you a grave robber? Are you into dead people of not, man?” He was nearly yelling by the end of his little speech. Brendon, to Patrick’s right, leaned over and finally turned on the light. Patrick blinked and groaned; he also got a good look at the two next to him.

Pete’s golden cheeks were stained red. “Yes,” he mumbled, suddenly embarrassed. “On both accounts. I’m into dead bodies, like a lot. Please don’t think I’m creepy.”

“Oh, of course not!” Patrick said sarcastically, “That’s _totally_ normal. Huh… dead bodies… that’s…” he trailed off. “Is that _why_ you found me? You were going to… y’know…”

“Yes,” Pete admitted quietly, staring over Patrick’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. “That’s why I was there; it wasn’t for you, per se, but just a body.”

“Well, uh—” Patrick was cut off by Brendon suddenly standing up, nearly scaring him to an actual death (he almost didn’t want to die with Pete sitting _this_ close to him, though. He was glad that he didn’t actually die.)

“I’m going to bed, this is getting weird,” Brendon announced loudly. “Nice to meet you, Patrick, and maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. ‘Night, Pete.” He spun on his heel and basically sprinted out of the dimly lit room.

Silence reigned. Pete coughed, obviously trying to break the awkward silence, but it didn’t do much. “Well,” he said, a sly grin gracing his face.

“Well,” Patrick echoed. He ran a hand through his hair, which was in a bird’s nest from his casual unconsciousness. He tried to smooth it out. Pete’s eyes followed his hand movements closely, causing Patrick to blush from the attention. “So…”

“So, yeah.” Pete scratched the back of his neck. “I’m a… you know. I screw dead people.” Apparently Pete thought that was a better way to say that he was a necrophile. Patrick let out a shaky breath. _Don’t freak out_.

“Did you try… you know… with me?” Patrick asked nervously. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, basically praying to every deity that Pete hadn’t.

“No, no!” Pete said quickly, “Before I saw that you were, well, alive—well, breathing, I guess, since you were unconscious, I may have been thinking about it, but I didn’t.” Pete couldn’t meet Patrick’s eyes.

“Oh…” Patrick trailed off, “Okay, then.” He took a deep breath. “Thanks for not, uh, doing _that_ to me. I appreciate that. Like, a lot. I didn’t want my virginity taken by a necrophile.”

“Fair enough. What about just a grave robber? Would you mind that?” Pete giggled and continued before Patrick had a chance to respond. “But, it’s no problem. I guess that’s what you’d say in a situation like this? God, this is so effing weird. But, yeah, I’m not into breathing people. Well, maybe in a certain circumstance… no, no, no. This is getting weirder than normal; I don’t like talking about my… _preferences_ with other people. They think I’m strange or something.”

Patrick fought the urge to shake his head. “They aren’t wrong; it _is_ pretty strange. And illegal, I think. At least in most states, if I’m not wrong. Like, really illegal and definitely morally wrong,” Patrick muttered, closing his fingers into a tight fist.

“I-I know that. It’s just who I am, Patrick,” Pete whispered, looking away from Patrick. Patrick, himself, was eerily reminded of his own words when he told his parents that he was gay. Although, being a necrophile and being gay were _completely_ different things.

“Why?” Patrick asked. “Why do you like dead people?” He was almost afraid of the answer, if he was being honest. He wasn’t sure how weird the answer could get, though.

Pete froze, formulating an answer. He took a deep breath and spoke his next words in a careful tone. “I-I want to feel them, even if their soul has departed from his plane. Even if they’re dead and gone, they can _still_ give me some sort of pleasure. Something that doesn’t really happen to me if they’re still alive.”

Alright, this was almost too weird for Patrick. And that was saying something, since he’s done some messed up stuff himself. Nothing to this caliber, though, obviously.

Patrick stood up, pushing the cozy blanket off of his lap. He clapped his hands together loudly. “Well,” he said briskly, brushing off his wrinkled shirt and jeans. “Thank you for saving my life, Pete, but I must be going. My parents will be worried sick about me.” He left the ‘well, unless they think I’m dead’ off the end of his statement.

He moved the exit the room, but Pete grabbed his wrist. “Wait,” he said, eyes wide and tone desperate. “Come with me—tonight. Stay here for the day—Brendon won’t mind—and go out with me when it gets dark.”

“E-Excuse me?” Patrick choked out. “You— _You_ want _me_ to what?” He wasn’t sure if he had heard Pete correctly. Come with him?

“Come with me,” Pete repeated. “ _Please_.”

Patrick glanced at the floor. “I-I don’t know. I don’t want to get caught.” _And I’m not into dead people_ , he added silently. He hoped that Pete got the message.

“We won’t,” Pete insisted. “I promise.” He looked at Patrick, eyes filled with hope. Any defense that Patrick had faltered.

He sighed. “Okay,” he conceded, “one night.” What in the world was he getting himself into? He guessed, since people thought he was dead, he’d be okay not going home for another day. Anyway, it was already—he glanced at the TV clock again—4:30 AM, so there was no harm in staying. He was exhausted.

 _Except, you know, being with a necrophile grave robber,_ a tiny voice in his head said. _That’s a_ bit _harmful_.

“Shut up,” he unwittingly said out loud. He covered his mouth, blushing brightly. “Sorry.” Pete looked amused.

“Thank you! You’re gonna have _so_ much fun!” Pete all but squealed, clapping his hands. Patrick watched him closely; Pete’s smile had a bit of a predatory edge to it, making Patrick shiver. “It’ll be weird,” Pete continued, “being your first time, but I’m sure that you’re love it as much as I do.” Patrick noticed that Pete talked about grave robbing like it was something like rollerskating, or skydiving. You know, something _normal_.

“Yeah, uh, I hope so.” Patrick gave a muffled laugh, while simultaneously shooting a worried glance towards the doorway. He yawned loudly.

“Hey, you should get some sleep,” Pete said automatically. “Gotta be rested for tomorrow—well, tonight.” He stood up and moved to guide Patrick to the couch; Patrick let him do so, under the guise of being really tired, when he really just enjoyed the attention. For a minute, he forgot that this man was a necrophile grave robber and just let himself the presence of this human being.

“Thanks,” Patrick mumbled, once Pete had tucked him into the couch, using the blanket that he was using. Pete turned to leave. “Wait!” Patrick called. He didn’t want to admit it, but his time in that coffin had left him scared of being alone.

“Yes?” Pete asked softly.

“C-Can you stay? T-The coffin, y-you know—” Pete cut him off.

“Sure, ‘Trick,” Pete said, smiling. He settled down on the chair to the right of Patrick. He turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. “’Night.”

“’Night,” Patrick echoed.

 

 

The next day flew by, once Pete and Patrick had woken up. Before he knew it, he and Pete were trekking their way out to Pete’s beat up car. They walked in silence.

The night’s air was cool and tore through Pete’s think windbreaker coat like knives. He shivered. Without warning, Pete threw his arm over Patrick’s shoulder and pulled him closer. Patrick could feel the body heat rolling off of Pete like a furnace. He smiled.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. Pete didn’t respond, only opening the passenger door to his car. Patrick climbed in, Pete following seconds later on the other side. They drove to the cemetery—where he was buried before, Patrick realized with a jolt—still in a comfortable silence. Patrick tried to focus on the happier aspects of this trip, but none came to mind. He shook his head and wondered for probably the 10th time how he got himself into this situation.

He didn’t notice that they had arrived until the car stopped. “Ready?” Pete asked, a bit of excitement creeping into his voice. Patrick gulped.

“As I’ll ever be,” he replied and grabbed Pete’s offered hand. They walked, hand-in-hand (as friends, of course. Friends can do that.) into the cemetery. The air chilled Patrick to the bone as he tried to ignore the mist-covered coffins and rotting bouquets of flowers. He shivered again.

He wasn’t sure how long they walked for. Patrick watched as Pete surveyed different sits, hm’ing and shaking his head intermittently, until— “Aha!” Pete exclaimed, dropping Patrick’s now-chilling hands. “This one!”

“This one?” Patrick repeated weakly. The grave was nothing special—an older headstone, settled dirt, all hidden under a large oak tree. It was hundreds of others.

“Yes! Now, help me dig.” Pete tossed over a shovel and gloves to Patrick, who pulled them on slowly. He gripped the shovel tightly and began dig under the light of the moon. To his left, Pete hummed inanely under his breath, a nearly demented look in his glittering whiskey brown eyes.

As Patrick’s hand began to burn and sweat dripped into his eyes, they hit the coffin. Patrick’s shovel made an echoing sound off the metal lid.

“Awesome!” Pete whispered. “Here, put a mask on. _Now_ begins the fun.” He grinned, showing off all of his freakishly white teeth. It frightened Patrick—the smile reminded him of a skeleton. Could screwing corpses do that to you?

He didn’t want to ponder that specific thought.

 

The cool air kept Patrick from sweating too hard as he worked with Pete to pen the coffin lid. It was sealed shut, so it took Pete and Patrick probably 10 minutes to get it open.

When they _finally_ got it undone, Patrick held his breath. It opened slowly, revealing a … skeleton. “Are you kidding me?” Pete said, shaking his head. Despite trying to sound so, Patrick could tell that Pete wasn’t _that_ upset. He wondered why he was faking it.

“Do we go find another?” Patrick questioned, tapping Pete’s shoulder.

Pete didn’t turn around, but answered: “No—help me pull out the bones.” He gestured to the body. From a closer inspection, Patrick could still see parts of rotting flesh. He crinkled his nose. Gross.

Pete leaned into the coffin, obviously unaffected by the smell; Patrick followed reluctantly. Together, they gripped and tugged the bones out of the coffin. Once they got it out, Pete gently laid the bones on the grass next to them, leaning against the oak tree. Pete stood back up, gazing down into the coffin.

Patrick stood awkwardly next to Pete, surveying the gorgeous night sky. The stars twinkled and the moon was bright. Patrick took a deep breath.

“So,” Pete said suddenly. He placed his gloved hands on Patrick’s shoulders, making it so they were facing each other. “Patrick, I-I have something to tell you.

Patrick froze. “Yes?”

Pete couldn’t meet his eyes anymore. “I-I, uh, like you, uh, a lot,” he stuttered out, “but…”

“But?” Patrick held his breath. What was Pete going to say?

“You’re alive,” Pete admitted. Patrick held his head up, and, in time, let himself meet Pete’s unblinking eyes. For a second, blue-yellow met whiskey brown. Without warning, Pete surged forward and their lips met.

Time stopped. Their lips were connected for maybe a second total, until Pete broke away. A sadistic grin broke out on his slightly insane face. “I’m sorry,” Pete whispered, not looking one bit sorry. “But, like I said, you’re alive. And, well, that’s a turn off for me. No hard feelings?”

Patrick tried to break away, but Pete had him in an iron grip.

A heartbeat passed.

Patrick watched in an out of body experience as Pete shoved him—hard—into the hole to their left. Patrick crashed into the coffin, hitting the bottom, hard. He couldn’t react.

He cried out in pain and confusion. Above him, silhouetted by the glowing moonlight, was Pete. He leaned down, so they were eye-to-eye. “Maybe you’re give me pleasure when you’re dead and gone. You’ll never know, though.” He grinned.

“Pete—!” Patrick tried to yell, but, without warning, Pete shut the lid, plunging Patrick into darkness. He whimpered and listened miserably to the sound of dirt hitting the roof, burying him alive.

He was going to die. Fact. Time passed slowly. Pete left the site soon after, obviously done recovering the grave. His breathing got heavier and more ragged as the oxygen depleted.

He drifted off into unconsciousness with Pete’s name ghosting his lips, a bittersweet reminder of his death.

His heart let out its last beat less than one hour later.

Dead and gone, at last.

 

 

Pete felt only a bit of remorse for burying Patrick alive, but it was necessary. He had gotten to know too much. He needed to be removed from this equation… and added to Pete’s, uh, collection.

He didn’t bother explaining what happened to Brendon—it would make things more complicated. He only told Brendon that Patrick had left, saying no specific details. Brendon didn’t question him, obviously too terrified to, which made Pete happy.

Pete was curled up on the couch as he checked his phone periodically. Any day—any minute, now, even, _it_ would arrive. The idea of it made Pete nearly giddy. He was pleased that he found the right website to make it for him, no questions asked. Now, he thought, he could feel Patrick no matter what, _forever._

 _Bring_. The doorbell rang, nearly scaring Pete half-to-death. He shot out of his chair with a ‘whoop!’ and sprinted for the door. It was here! Finally. He opened the door slowly to reveal his package. It was wrapped discreetly, like he had specifically asked for. Good.

He brought it inside with shaking hands. He slowly pulled open the packaging, revealing his _prize_. Inside, surrounded by packing peanuts, was _it_.

His dildo full of Patrick’s cremated ashes. He couldn’t wait.

 

_  
_

 

 


End file.
